I will follow you into the dark
by immature-girl
Summary: There were nights when Sherlock would curl up on top of him, face hidden on the crook of his neck and he would talk. It was sort of a sick fascination, hearing his stories. On these nights, John avoided thinking who the monster in their relationship actually was. Slender!Sherlock. Please, read warnings inside.


Warnings: Gore, dark!Sherlock, slight dub-con, general creepiness. If you don't feel comfortable with any of these, please, stop reading now.

Written for a prompt on the kink meme (sherlockbbc-fic. livejournal 21231. html?thread=124707567#t124707567)

* * *

"_John_."

Sherlock's cold breath ghosted over his neck, sending tingles down his spine. Leaving a trail of wet kisses all down to his collarbone, Sherlock pushed forward, pounding into John, slowly, deeply, as if he wanted to crawl inside of him.

"Mine. You're _mine_, John. Say it."

John gasped for breath, one hand curled tightly on the sheets, the other one tangled in Sherlock's curls; a silent plea for _more, faster, please, Sherlock._

"Yours. I'm yours. Always."

Sherlock took hold of his hips and thrust harder. He leaned forward, biting onto his neck, marking, claiming what was rightfully his.

It wasn't long before John came with a strangled shout. Sherlock pounded into him for a few more seconds, until he too found his release.

* * *

"Was it you?" asked John, as soon as the door was closed.

They were back from the Yard. Lestrade had been on his last nerve, trying to find the little girl who had gone missing almost a week ago. They had been restlessly looking for her, but there were no clues. Not even Sherlock had been able to provide them with a lead.

Sherlock cocked his head, a curious look on his face. "Does it matter?"

John simply remained quiet.

* * *

Some nights, when Sherlock stayed on the couch, lost inside his head, John wondered.

Sherlock had never said anything, but he had a certain look. He would look at him sometimes, a silent scrutiny, as if trying to solve a particularly puzzling case.

John knew. Or at least, he thought he did.

He had always suspected their meeting hadn't been a random event. That Sherlock had known him years before they where introduced at Bart's, like a shadow, carefully hidden in the background.

Sherlock had never said anything, of course. But John had asked, just once. Sherlock had merely smiled at him, slowly, cautiously, and had simply told him to stop being ridiculous.

But John knew better.

Sherlock had seen something in him, something that not even Sherlock himself could understand.

As reluctant as Sherlock seemed to be about that particular matter (because Sherlock knew, even if John had dropped the subject, that the still thought about it), he had no qualms about talking of _past experiences_.

There were nights when Sherlock would curl up on top of him, face hidden on the crook of his neck and he would talk. It was sort of a sick fascination, hearing his stories.

On these nights, John avoided thinking who the monster in their relationship actually was.

* * *

"Female, early thirties. She has been impaled on a tree."

John stopped on his tracks, shocked by Lestrade's bluntness. Sherlock, however, didn't seem as surprised.

"There's something else. Talk."

Lestrade sighed, running a hand over his face. He looked worryingly haggard. "It appears that her organs had been... taken out."

"But?"

"But the person who did it, after removing them, put them on plastic bags and returned them to their exact place. If it weren't for the bags, you wouldn't even notice something was wrong."

Sherlock smirked. John repressed a shiver. "Finally something interesting."

* * *

Sherlock was thrusting into John, hard and fast. His hands were roaming all over his body, his mouth leaving deep bites all over his neck. His control was slipping, but he was too distracted to notice, nor to care.

He dragged his fingernails over John's back, leaving a trail of red, angry marks; just enough to draw out blood. His thrusts became even more frantic; his need to mark John, making him his, almost unbearable.

He could feel _them _coming out and slide slowly down his back. From the corner of his eyes he could see how they wrapped themselves around John's wrists and tights, carefully, but tightly, pulling them even further apart.

He roughly pulled at John's hair, running his hand down his face, pressing his fingernails on the soft skin. A small voce at the back of his brain was telling him to_ stop,t his is too much, you can't control it, you will-_

_Wet._

He opened his eyes and looked down at John.

Tears were running down his face, though he didn't seem to have noticed. He was harshly gasping for breath, eyes firmly closed, tiny whimpers escaping his lips.

"John." He tentatively brushed his cheek.

John flinched and opened his eyes.

"Sherlock?" He seemed less tensed now, but his eyes still showed how wary he actually was.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't... thinking clearly."

Sherlock leaned forward, lips ghosting over his bruised cheek. He could feel _them _inside of him again. He drew out a sigh and deliberately tried to ignore how damaged John's body appeared to be; mentally chastening himself for letting his control slip like that.

Neither of them uttered another word for the rest of the night.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

Well… I never thought I would write something so creepy. But my God, it was too interesting to let it pass.

Hope everyone likes it x


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